At the moment when Ensign Ronayne removed his sword, with the intention of handing it to his commanding officer, in anticipation of the arrest which he expected, Maria Heywood, little conversant with those military formalities, and apprehending from the previous high tone of her lover, that something fearful was about to occur, had not absolutely fainted, but become so agitated, that Mrs. Elmsley was induced to take her back to the sofa, on which she had previously been reclining. As she was leaving her chair, Mrs. Headley, whose attention had also been arrested by the loud and angry voice of her husband, came from her own door and joined the little group, anxiously inquiring the cause of the disturbance without.
In a few brief sentences, and as correctly as she was able, Mrs. Elmsley explained to her the circumstances, and although her attentive auditor offered no very pointed remark, it was evident from her manner that she deeply deplored that strict military punctilio, which had led the husband whom she both loved and esteemed, to place himself in a false position with his own force—for that it was a false position in some degree, to provoke insubordination, and yet be without the power to punish it, she had too much good sense not to perceive. She felt the more annoyed, because she had on more than one occasion, observed that there was not that unanimity between her husband and Lieutenant Elmsley, which she conceived ought to exist between parties so circumstanced—a commander of a remote post, and his second in command, on whose mutual good understanding, not only the personal security of all might depend, but the existence of those social relations, without which, their isolated position involved all the unpleasantness of a voluntary banishment. This had ever been to her a source of regret, and she had on several occasions, although in the most delicate and unobtrusive manner, hinted at the fact; but the man who doated upon her, and to whom, in all other respects, her desire was law, evinced so much inflexibility in all that appertained to military etiquette, that she had never ventured to carry her allusions beyond the light commentary induced by casual reference to the subject.
If then she lamented that unfortunate coolness, if not absolute estrangement, which existed between Lieutenant Elmsley and her husband, bow much more acutely did she feel the difficulty of the position now, when the only other responsible officer of the garrison—and that a young man of high feeling and accomplishment, whom she had ever liked and admired—was fast being led into the same antagonism. Nay, what rendered the matter more painful to her, was the fact of the latter being the lover, or perhaps the affianced of a girl, whom she regarded with a fervor not often felt by one woman for another, and for whose interests she could have made every sacrifice, not affecting those of her husband.
Such were the women who were now seated on the ottoman, engaged more in their own reflections, than in conversation, when Lieutenant Elmsley entered the room, announcing that the truant would shortly be in for breakfast, which, he requested, might be instantly prepared in the usual manner, only adding thereto a couple of bottles of claret.
“Ah! pardon me, Mrs. Headley,” he added, somewhat stiffly, as his wife left the room to issue the necessary orders, “I did not see you, or I should have been rather more ceremonious in my domestic communications.”
Mrs. Headley slightly colored. She was sensible that pique towards her husband, and a belief that she wholly shared his sentiments, had induced this rather sarcastic speech.
“By no means, Mr. Elmsley. I trust you will not put ME down as a stranger, whatever your disposition to others.”
There was a significance in the manner in which this was said, that deeply touched the lieutenant, and his tone immediately changed.
“Then, I take you at your word,” he said. “It is a long time since I have had the pleasure of seeing you here, and you must positively join our second breakfast. I know Captain Headley is engaged with Winnebeg, whom he purposes sending off this evening with despatches, so that you will not be missed for at least an hour. There, look at Miss Heywood's imploring look—she pleads with her eyes in my favor, although there is no chance, it appears, of getting a word from her lips.”
“Nay,” remarked the other, who had rallied from her late despondency, on hearing the object of the breakfast; “you are very unreasonable, Mr. Elmsley. You do not deserve that I should speak to you to-day, and I am not quite sure that I shall.”
“And pray, fair lady, why not? Wherein have I had the misfortune to offend?”
“Ah! do you forget? You promised to bring me a certain report of certain occurrences, and yet instead of that, not a word have you condescended to address to me until this moment.”
“I plead guilty,” he answered deprecatingly, “but pray for a suspension of sentence, until the return of one through whose influence I hope to obtain your pardon! I go now,” he whispered, “to lead him to your feet.”
“Well, what is the great question you have to put to me?” said the lieutenant to his friend, whom he had rejoined, and with whom he now returned slowly towards the house—“one involving a case of life and death it might be imagined, from the long face you put on when alluding to the matter.”
“Nay, not exactly that, but still involving a good deal. Tell me frankly, Elmsley, has Miss Heywood heard any further account of the events at the farm-house?”
“She has heard the report brought in by Nixon and the rest of the fishing-party.”
“And what was that, I pray you?” eagerly returned the ensign.
“That Mr. Heywood had been carried off by the Indians.”
“From whom did she hear it?”
“It was I who told her, on the strength of what the corporal reported, not only to myself, but to Captain Headley.”
“You are a considerate fellow, Elmsley,” said his friend, warmly pressing his hand. “I thank you for that, and now that the great question, as you term it, is answered, I am quite ready for the promised breakfast. Did these fellows bring home any fish? I have a great fancy for fish this morning.”
“No; they brought home dead men,” and the lieutenant looked searchingly into the face of his companion, dwelling on every word, moreover, as if he would convey that he (Ronayne), knew perfectly well what freight the boat had brought to the Fort.
Further remark was prevented by their arrival at their destination—the front-door being open, and revealing the little party within. The first upon, whom the young officer's eye fell, was Mrs. Headley, of whose intended presence, his friend had not thought of apprising him. Still smarting under a keen sense of the severity of reproof of his commanding officer, and falling into the common error of involving the wife in the unamiability of the husband, Ronayne would have retired, even at the risk of losing his breakfast, and, what was of far more moment to him, of delaying his meeting with her to whom his every thought was devoted. But when Mrs. Headley, who had remarked the movement, came forward to the door, and gave him her hand with all the warmth and candor of her noble nature, the pique vanished from his mind, and in an instant, he, like Elmsley, evinced that devotion and regard for her, which her fascinating manner could not fail to inspire.
The sense of constraint being thus banished by the only one whose presence had occasioned it, the party, after a few minutes low conversation between the lovers, sat down gaily to a meal—half-break fast, half-luncheon, at which the most conspicuous actor was the lately reprimanded ensign.
“Really, Mr. Ronayne, you must have met with a perfect chapter of adventures during your absence last night. You have devoured the last four fresh eggs, my cook says, there were in the house—three limbs of a prairie fowl, and nearly the half of a young bear ham. Do, pray, tell us where you have been to gain such an appetite? Indeed you must—I am dying to know.”
“My dear Mrs. Elmsley,” he replied, coloring, “where should I have been but in the Fort?”
“True! where SHOULD you have been, indeed; but this is not the point, my hungry gentleman. Where WERE you? If I was, I KNOW WHO,” she added, significantly, “I should have my suspicions, unless, indeed, you have already confessed within the few minutes you have been in the room.”
“Nay, do not imagine I have so much influence over the truant, as to compel him to the confessional,” said Maria Heywood. “I assure you I am quite as much in the dark as any one present.”
“Come, Mr. Ronayne, recount your adventures,” added Mrs. Headley. “Recollect you are not on parade now, or exactly before the sternest Court of Inquiry in the world, and should therefore, entertain no dread of punishment on your self-conviction.”
“Thus urged and encouraged,” said the ensign, during one of the short pauses of his knife and fork, which, in truth, he had handled as much to study what he should say, as to satisfy his hunger; “who could resist such pleading, were there really any thing to communicate; but I am quite at a loss to conceive why so general an opinion seems to prevail that I have been out of the Fort, and in quest of adventure. Why not rather ascribe my tardiness at parade to some less flattering cause—a head-ache—fatigue from night-watching—indolence, or even a little entetement, arising from the denial of a very imprudent request I made to Captain Headley last evening, to allow me the command of a detachment for a particular purpose. Pardon me, I have made quite a speech, but indeed you compel me.”
“Let us drown this inquisition in a bumper of claret,” interposed Elmsley, coming to the assistance of his friend, whose motive for thus parrying inquiry into his conduct, he thought he could divine. “I say, my dear fellow, you may wish yourself a head-ache—fatigue—indolence, or even a little entetement every morning of your life, if it is to be cured in this manner. This is some of the most splendid Lafayette that ever found its way into these western wilds. Look well at it. It is of the clearest, the purest blood of the grape—taste it again. A bottle of it will do you no harm if you had twenty guards in charge.”
As he had desired and expected, the introduction of his remarks on the wine proved not only a means of changing the conversation, but of causing the ladies to withdraw from the table, round which they had been sitting, rather to keep the young officer company, than to participate in the repast themselves. Mrs. Headley was the first to move.
“Give me your arm, and see me home,” she said carelessly, to Ronayne, who now having finished his breakfast, had also risen. “Do not be jealous, my dear Miss Heywood, but you will later know, if you do not know already, that the wife of the commanding officer always appropriates to herself, the handsomest unmarried young officer of the regiment.”
Both Ronayne and his betrothed were too quick of apprehension not to perceive, under this light gaiety, a deep interest, and a desire to convey to them both, that, if unhappily, there did not exist a cordial understanding between her husband and the former, in matters purely military, and in relation to subjects which should have no influence over private life, she was by no means, a party to the disunion.
“Not very difficult to choose between the handsomest and the cleverest of the unmarried officers of the garrison of Chicago,” replied Maria Heywood with an effort at cheerfulness; “therefore, Mr. Ronayne, I advise you not to be too much elated by Mrs. Headley's compliment. After that caution, I think you may be trusted with her.”
“What a noble creature, and what a pity she has so cold and pompous a husband,” remarked Lieutenant Elmsley, as Mrs. Headley disappeared from the door-way. “I never knew her so well as this morning, and upon my word, Margaret, were both HE and YOU out of the way, I should be greatly tempted to fall in love with her.”
“You would act wisely if you did, George; I have always thought most highly of her. She is, it is true, a little reserved in manner, but that I am sure comes wholly from a certain restraint, imposed upon her by her husband's formality of character. I say I am sure of this, for there have been occasions when I have seen her exhibit a warmth of address, as different from her general demeanor, as light is from shadow.”
“Perhaps Headley has systematically drilled her into the particular bearing that ought to be assumed by the wife of the commandant of a garrison.”
“Nay, George! that is not generous, but I know you are not serious in what you say. You judge Mrs. Headley better, and that she is not a woman to be so drilled. She has too much good sense, despite all her partiality for her husband, to allow herself to be improperly influenced, where her judgment condemns; and although, as his wife, she must necessarily act in concert with him, it by no means follows that she approves unreservedly, all that he does.”
“You are a dear, noble creature yourself!” exclaimed the gratified Elmsley, as he fondly embraced his wife. “There is nothing I love so much as to see one woman warm in the defence of another—one so seldom meets with that sort of thing. What, Maria, tears?”
“Yes—tears of pleasure!” she answered earnestly, as she held her handkerchief to her eyes—“tears of joy to see so much generosity of feeling among those whom I have so much reason to esteem and admire. You are right,” she pursued, addressing Mrs. Elmsley, “she is indeed a noble woman. Perhaps I may justly be accused of a little partiality, for I never can forget the frank and cordial proffers of friendship with which she received me on the first night of my appearance here.”
“Ha! Von Vottenberg to the rescue!” exclaimed Elmsley, with sudden animation, as the stout figure of the former shaded the door-way. “Well, doctor, have you passed away in the evaporation produced by fright, the violent head-ache you were suffering from this morning? If not, try that claret. It is capital stuff, and a tumbler of it will make up for the breakfast you have lost.”
“Faith, and there is no breakfast lost, that I can perceive,” chuckled the doctor, seating himself unceremoniously at the table, and commencing upon the remains of the bear ham, and prairie hen.
“I fear the tea and coffee are cold,” said Mrs. Elmsley; “let me get some hot for you?”
“By no means, my dear Mrs. Elmsley, I could not think of such slops with generous claret at my elbow. Nay, do not look offended. Your tea and coffee are always of the best, but they do not just now, suit my taste. Miss Heywood, how do you do this morning? How is your gentle mother? I have called expressly to see her. Elmsley, where is that runaway, Ronayne?”
And where indeed was he? They had not walked more than three or four paces, when Mrs. Headley, after some little hesitation, addressed him thus:—
“Mr. Ronayne, notwithstanding your evident desire to conceal the fact, I can plainly see that you were not within the Fort last night. I can fully comprehend that your motive for absenting yourself, has been praiseworthy, but you must also admit that the reproof you met with this morning, was not altogether undeserved. Pray do not start or look grave, for, believe me, I am speaking to you only as a friend—indeed it was to have the opportunity of convincing you that I am such, that I asked you to escort me.”
“Really, Mrs. Headley,” interrupted the young officer, little divining to what all this was to tend, and feeling not altogether at his ease, from the abruptness with which the subject had been introduced, “I feel as I ought, the interest you profess to take in me, but how is that connected either with my asserted absence, or the reproof it entailed?”
“It is so far connected with it, that I wish to point out the means by which any unpleasant result may be avoided!”
“Unpleasant result! Mrs. Headley?”
“Yes, unpleasant result, for I have too good an opinion of you not to believe that any thing tending to destroy the harmony of our very limited society, would be considered such by you.”
“I am all attention, Madam. Pray, proceed.”
“The pithiness of your manner does not afford me much encouragement yet I will not be diverted from my purpose, even by that. You have had the Commandant's lecture,” she continued, with an attempt at pleasantry, “and now you must prepare yourself for (pardon the coinage of the term) that of the Commandantess.”
“The plot thickens,” said the ensign, somewhat sharply—“both the husband and the wife. Jupiter Tonans and Juno the Superb in judgment upon poor me in succession. Ah! that is too bad. But seriously, Mrs. Headley, I shall receive with all due humility, whatever castigation you may choose to inflict.”
“No castigation I assure you, Ronayne, but wholesome advice from one, who, recollect, is nearly old enough to be your mother. However, you shall hear and then decide for yourself.”
“Although,” she pursued, after a short pause, “we women are supposed to know nothing of those matters, it would be difficult, in a small place like this, to be ignorant of what is going on. Hence it is that I have long since remarked, with pain and sorrow, the little animosity which exists between Headley and yourself—(I will not introduce Mr. Elmsley's name, because what I have to say has no immediate reference to him), and the almost daily widening breach. Now, Ronayne, I would appeal to your reason. Place yourself for a moment in my husband's position. Consider his years, nearly double your own—his great responsibility and the peculiar school of discipline in which he has been brought up. Place yourself, I repeat, in his position, and decide what would be your sentiments if, in the conscientious discharge of your duty, you thought yourself thwarted by those very men—much your juniors both in years and military experience—on whose co-operation you had every fair reason to rely.”
“You have, my dear Mrs. Headley, put the case forcibly yet simply.” returned the ensign, who had listened with marked deference to the whole of her remonstrance. “In such a case I should feel no slight annoyance, but why imagine that I have sought to thwart Captain Headley?”
“Was it not apparently to thwart him—bear in mind I speak to you dispassionately and as a friend—to refuse in the presence of the whole garrison this morning to account for your absence of last night, which might have been easily explained, had you been so disposed?”
“But, my dear Mrs. Headley, why is it persisted in, that I was absent—and even if such were the case, might not I have had a good reason for refusing to commit myself by the avowal.”
“Admitting this, could you have maintained your position without, in a measure, setting his authority at defiance—thus encouraging the men to do the same. Was this right, I ask? Was this officer-like?”
“Well, no, perhaps not. I blush not to make the admission to YOU, for indeed, there is no resisting so bewitching a master in petticoats. Yet, what would you have me do?”
“Ah, now, I begin to entertain some hope of you,” she replied, in a gayer tone, placing her hand at the same time familiarly on his shoulder and looking approvingly in his face. “Ronayne, you are engaged—perhaps will shortly become the husband of the noble girl, whom I love even as though she were my own daughter—yes,” she repeated energetically, as she felt his grateful pressure of her hand, “even as though she were my own daughter—nay, you know I like yourself for your open, although rather too impetuous character. Do you then think that feeling this it can be any other than a source of deep pain and vexation to me, to see those in whom I feel so much interest, alienated from each other—in some degree even mutually hating and hated?”
“Yet, what would you have me to do, my dear Mrs. Headley? Some concession I suppose, must be made. Any thing in honor and in reason will I do for your sake,” returned the young officer, deeply touched by her manner and language.
“This I wish you to do, Ronayne. Take the first favorable opportunity, either while on guard to-day, or when relieved to-morrow, to see Headley privately, and by such language as you well know how to use, remove the unfavorable impression you have left on his mind—depend upon it, although extremely cold and inflexible when apparently braved, my husband has a warm and generous—aye, a noble heart, and will freely grant what is frankly solicited. Bear in mind, moreover, Ronayne, that it is no humiliation to admit error when conscious of having committed it; and if this be so in the social relations of life, how much less derogatory is it in a military sense.”
“Say no more, dearest Mrs. Headley, since it is your wish, I will go, no matter what the reception I encounter; and any further rebuke I may meet with, I will cheerfully endure for your sake.”
“Now then, Ronayne, you are once more yourself, the generous, high-minded boy, in whom I delighted, even as a mother would delight in her son, when you first arrived here about three years ago. Yet, recollect that not only I shall be gratified and benefitted by this, but YOU and YOURS. Let but this unhappy discord terminate, and we shall then be what soldiers and those connected with them, ought ever to be—one undivided family. And now, for the present, farewell.”
“God bless you!” fervently exclaimed the ensign, as he took his leave of the graceful and noble wife of the commanding officer, with emotions that fully testified the effect produced upon him by her generous confidence and candor.
From the frequent reference made by Mrs. Headley to her own riper years, one might have been induced to consider her rather in the decline of life; but such was not the case. Her splendid and matronly figure might indeed have impressed the superficial observer with the belief that she had numbered more than forty summers, but the unchained and luxuriant hair—the white, even and perfect teeth—the rich, full lip, and unwrinkled brow, and smooth and brilliant cheek, would not have permitted the woman most jealous of her charms, could such have been found, to pronounce her more than six-and-thirty, which was, indeed, her age. It was a source of gratification to her to consider and represent herself as older than she really was; and if she had any peculiarity—a weakness it could not be called—it was that of loving to look upon those younger persons who claimed a place in her friendship and esteem, as though she actually stood in the maternal relation to them. This may have, in some degree, arisen from the fact of her having ever been childless herself.
As Ronayne approached Elmsley's house on his return, a remarkably handsome and noble-looking Indian—quite a youth—was leaning against the frame of the door, and according to the simple habit of his race, indulging his curiosity by looking at, and admiring all that he beheld within. Elmsley himself had gone out, but Von Vottenberg, still seated at the breakfast-table, was discussing, with its remains, the now nearly finished claret, while Mrs. Elmsley and Maria Heywood were seated on the sofa opposite to the door, passing their whispered remarks on the Indian, whose softened dark glances occasionally fell with intense admiration on the former, when he fancied the act unseen, but as instantly were withdrawn, when he perceived that it was observed.
Mrs. Elmsley was endeavoring to dissipate the dejection of her friend by rallying her, as the young officer came to the door, on the evidently new conquest she had made. The Indian turned to look at the intruder upon his pleasant musings, when a “wah!” expressive of deep satisfaction escaped him, and at the same moment, Ronayne grasped, and cordially shook his hand.
“Ha! there is his formidable rival, and seemingly his friend,” whispered Mrs. Elmsley, in the ear of Maria—“handsome fellows, both of them, so much so, that were I single, like you, I should have some difficulty in choosing between them.”
As she uttered these words, a sharp and unaccountable pang, sudden and fleeting as electricity, shot through the frame of her friend. The blood suddenly receded from her cheek, and then rapidly returning, suffused it with a burning heat.
“What is the matter, my love? Are you ill, you looked so pale just now?” tenderly inquired Mrs. Elmsley.
“I cannot account for what I experienced. It was a feeling different from any I had ever known before—a strange, wild, and inexplicable dread of I know not what. But it has passed away. Take no notice of it, dear, before Ronayne.”
“Mrs. Elmsley,” said the latter, almost using force to induce the modest-looking young Indian to enter the room, “will you allow me first to introduce my friend Waunangee to you, and then to give him a glass of claret? Forgive the liberty I take, but I confess a good deal of obligation to him, and would fain do the civil in return.”
“Indeed! what a set speech for a glass of wine. Give it to him by all means, if it is only for his beautiful eyes—that is to say, if the doctor has left any—or stay, I will get another bottle.”
“By no means,” returned the young officer, “this unconscionable man has just left about half a tumbler foil, and I do not intend he shall have more. Waunangee,” he pursued, after filling and presenting him with the glass, “that is the lady of the house,” pointing to Mrs. Elmsley, “you must drink to her health.”
“And dis you handsome squaw,” remarked the Indian, a moment or two after having tossed off the wine, which quickly circulated through his veins. “Dis you wife!” he repeated, throwing his expressive eyes upon Miss Heywood, while a rich glow lighted up his dark, but finely formed features.
“Hush!” said Ronayne, making a sign to intimate that he was not to indulge in such observations.
But even the small quantity of wine he had taken was acting potently on the fast animating Indian. “Dis no you squaw—dis Waunangee squaw,” he said, with strong excitement of manner. “Waunangee, see him beautiful, Waunangee got warm heart—love him very much!”
“Tolerably well for a modest youth!” exclaimed the laughing Mrs. Elmsley. “Who would have thought that one with those soft black eyes, more fitted for a woman than a man, would hazard so glowing a speech, after an acquaintance of barely five minutes?”
“Who says Chicago doesn't abound in adventure?” sneered Von Vottenberg, as he arose and passed into the apartment of his patient. “I shall certainly write a book about this when I get back into the civilized world, and entitle it 'The Loves of the Handsome Waunangee, and the Beautiful American.'”
“You had better write 'The Loves of the Fat Von Vottenberg, and his Mistress, Whisky Punch,'” remarked Ronayne, peevishly, for in spite of himself, he felt annoyed at an observation, which he thought delicacy might have spared. “Come, Waunangee, my good friend, we must go.”
But the young Indian was not so easily led. “Waunangee have him first dis nice squaw,” he said, with all that show of dogged obstinacy which so usually distinguishes his race, when under the influence of liquor, and bent upon the attainment of a particular object.
“Hear me, Waunangee,” replied the other, placing his hand upon his shoulder, and now, that Mrs. Elmsley only was present with his affianced, feeling less scruple in explaining to the young savage—“that is my squaw—my wife.”
“Why you no tell him so?” asked the youth, gravely, and with an air of reproach, while, at the same time, he fixed his soft and melancholy eyes upon Miss Heywood. “Waunangee love officer's squaw—but Waunangee good heart. Shake him hand, my friend,” he continued, walking up to her, and tendering his own, while, singular as it seemed to all, a tear dimmed his eye, and stole down his cheek. “'Spose no Waunangee wife—you Waunangee's friend?”
The generous but trembling girl, shook cordially the hand that rested in her own, and assured the youth, in a way easily intelligible to him, that, as the friend of her husband, and she blushed deeply, as the moment afterwards she became sensible she had used a word, she could not but feel to be premature, she would always regard him with friendship and esteem.
“What a nice little scene we might get up out of this morning's adventure,” said the ever gay Mrs. Elmsley, as Waunangee, after having shaken hands with herself, departed with Ronayne. “Really, my dear, he is a fine looking, and certainly a warm-hearted fellow, that Wau—Wan—what's his name, Maria?”
“Waunangee. I know not how it is, Margaret, or why—I should attach so much importance to the thing, but if ever those glimpses of the future, called presentiments, had foundation in truth, that young Indian is destined to exercise some sort of influence over my fate.”
“You do not mean that he is to supplant Ronayne, I hope,” returned her friend, trying to laugh her oat of the serious mood, in which she seemed so much inclined to indulge.
“How can you speak so, Margaret? No, my presentiment is of a different character. But it is very foolish and silly to allow the feeling to weigh with me. I will try to think more rationally. Say nothing of this, however, and least of all to Ronayne.”
“Not a word, dearest. Good bye for the present. I must look after the dinner. You know who dines with us.”
A look expressive of the deep sense she entertained of the consideration her mother's apartment.
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